


Harvest Festival: Galahd District

by Aithilin



Series: Festive Food Fluffs [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Culture Differences, Fluff, M/M, festive, harvest festivals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 05:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12574952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: There's a party going on in the Galahd District of Insomnia for the night, and Noctis wanted to see it.





	Harvest Festival: Galahd District

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!

Insomnia was too big and too diverse to be homogeneous in its culture. Even among the Lucion residents, there were variations and subtle differences— those with roots in Leide prayed for rain in their celebrations, those from Duscae for bountiful harvests, from Cleigne… Well Nyx never understood the people from Cleigne. As far as he could tell, there was something about Moogles and the powerplant he had only ever seen a handful of times. Really, most of the Lucian traditions were lost on him— the stiff-backed, formal affairs of the royals and upper echelon, or the quiet, private events of the common citizens. He never really understood the idea of the real celebration being private affairs as the Lucians were fond of. Of hiding away with just a select few, behind closed doors. 

Festivals in Galahd spilt out into the street. Houses were emptied as everyone brought something to the party, even if it was just a smile and an appetite. 

Back home, a feast or festival took up the whole community. There would be tables in prominent public places, the servings piled high for everyone to take as they wanted— the feast guarded by an army of stern mothers with harsh words and reminders to share, to fetch friends and family, to take some out to those who couldn’t get out to the chaos themselves. The whole island would be lit up with lanterns and bonfires, the music echoing through the canyons and over the rivers, through the forests, for miles. 

In this foreign city, they had their community centres. 

The streets were still a chaotic mess of decorations from all the islands, from all the clans. Family colours and crests hung in bunting across the streets or in shop windows, the music from every island fighting for attention from every speaker and radio in the district. Four major islands and all of their traditions and customs and people flowed through a handful of layers and city blocks, while Lucians wandered through the events like tourists. 

But the heart of each district was a little building with a respectful, Lucian plaque, dedicated to the memory of a home that was lost. A short building with beds for the new refugees, kitchens for those struggling, and classes for those who needed to catch up to the city standard. Amall buildings with open doors and a staff dedicated to preserving what was threatened as people traded out on occupation for another. 

“Are you sure about this?”

“I’m always sure about my plans, little star.”

Noctis had wanted to see what the fuss was about. Had wanted to see what the chaos was, and what remained from all of Nyx’s stories of his homeland. 

But not as the prince. Nyx had loaned him an oversized hoodie, something to obscure the easily recognisable features— the dark hair, the pale skin, the familiar blue eyes that stared out at citizens of the city during any royal function. Like the Citadel feasts and masquerades and balls meant to celebrate the same sort of harvest as the districts. 

The first thing he noticed, stepping through the open doors that were guarded by an army of Galahdian volunteers with pamphlets, was that most of the people actually seemed to be out in the street, rather than inside. The food, for the most part was inside, spread out across tables and counters. The names of the donating restaurants and pubs strung across offerings with advertisements and menus, while the dishes delivered from families and clans were given less ceremony and far more attention. 

The room was heavy with the smell of it all, with the heat and the spices, and the warmth against the chill outside. With the steam still rising from the hotplates set out like a buffet, curling through the room like a siren’s call. The covered plates foggy until the lids needed to be moved just to see the dish hidden inside, the cloud of steam and smell and spice wafting in like a sudden flourish to underscore the new arrival, the new serving. The new masterpiece added to the waning collection. 

Nyx beelined for a table, Noct dragged along a step behind until a plate was pushed into his hands. 

“Is there a line, or—”

“Go for whatever catches your eye, kitten.”

There was a very loose flow to the room, some dishes had more attention than others. The flow of the air dictated the flow of the people, the laughter and chatter filling the open room jut as much as the aromas and promise of a hot meal on a cold night. Despite the vibrancy, the pulse of the music beating through the streets and the crowd, the noise and life pressing in at all sides, the crowds still parted easily. Noct followed Nyx as he moved, as he weaved through the crowds to the plates and dishes and greeted familiar faces with a familiar smile and a foreign tongue Noct had only just started to learn. 

He was so certain that he would lose Nyx in the rush of people, and the flows of colour. 

“Try this, little star,” Nyx would say as he set a scoop of curry and noodles and meat on the flimsy paper plate in Noct’s hands. As he reached almost blindly into a crowd and emerged with two skewers to add to the mess. As he added heavy cuts of meat, steaming and heady to the pile. And a light, flat bread— still warm and floury— to top it off. 

Careful hands moved the bread to cover most of the meal; “To keep it warm. We’ll eat outside.”

As if the streets were any less chaotic than the large, wondrous room of the small community centre. As if there was any escaping the noise and the colours and the people all pressed together and celebrating as if they were all related. As if there were any fewer vendors and stall out in the street, calling out their food and sauces and specialities over the deafening din of the speakers and bands and the laughter. 

But there was a small park, with a sturdy monument that had served as a picnic spot for more than one hungry festival goer over the course of the evening. Nyx pulled him up to a part of the wide base, the plates between them on the cold stone as they picked at each other’s dishes. 

“The noodles are from the northern islands,” Nyx explained, spearing a piece of meat with the fork he had used to wrap the mess of noodles, amused to watch Noct do the same. “You’d like it there— cold fish and hot noodles or soups like this..”

“The skewers are from home,” there was a touch of pride in the claim, Nyx happily taking the cast off cherry tomatoes as Noct dropped them back into the quickly diminishing pile of food that had constituted their meal. “Though they haven’t quite managed to make them the same.”

“You can make them, though,” Noct said, breaking apart the bread as it started to cool, as he dipped it into the sauce before it soaked into the flimsy plate. “You should.”

They had really gone out to watch the festivities as they came to a crescendo— as the individual pieces of music and noise started to die as the park nearby was lit with bonfires. As the main acts set up between the festival fires, Lucian firefighters stationed here and there to watch, to wait, to act on behalf of the guard and return to their regular lives with stories of the Galahdian heathens and their harvest night dances through flames. As Glaives, giddy with the show of culture, with the reminders of home leapt and warped through the flames to the cheers of those who were less brave. As they fell to dampened grass at the musicians feet, laughing until they were pulled up by friends and family. 

Nyx smiled at the look of wide eyed amazement at the blatant shows of wild courage. Too mesmerised by the show to notice the drop of sauce staining his lip. Too in awe of the alien celebration— so different from the Lucian severities and privacy— to react much as Nyx reached for him, thumb swiping the sauce away. 

But he smiled at the kiss that followed. 

“Happy harvest, little star.”


End file.
